Like many
published authors, I’ve developed a psychological disorder known as OCA:
Obsessively Checking Amazon.

This
happens when you get a book listed on Amazon.com, and find yourself waking up
in the middle of the night just to check the book’s ranking. When you don’t
sell many copies (that would be most writers) your entire day can be made with
one sale, or broken by the precipitous ranking drop that comes after that one
sale.

My fourth
book came out in May, and my wife had to use a Taser and a crowbar to pry me
away from the internet before summer arrived. My rank peaked in mid-May at
68,201, which sounds pretty good until you realize that the previous February,
for reasons that remain a mystery, my overall rank hit 9,093.

Of course,
that counts only Amazon sales, as opposed to sales from other sources. I keep a
box full of books in the trunk of my car, just in case I stumble across an
unwary victim—ahem, reader—with a few bucks for books.

The other
thing is that Amazon rankings aren’t determined by just the number of copies
sold. There’s the question of velocity … in theory, if I sold two books in an
hour I might get a higher ranking than if I sold one book a week for a month.
There are other factors, which are very mystical and may or may not involve a
bearded wizard manning a supercomputer.

That
appears to be what happened in February. I sold a few books close together, or
the wizard sneezed.

Through
most of the long, outside-instead-of-reading summer days, my overall Amazon ranking
hovered in the high 300,000’s. That sounds pretty bad, but with everyone
self-publishing these days, and everyone else putting older print books out as
e-books, there are millions upon millions of books for sale. For instance, I
found The Ghost Of Dibble Hollow, a
1965 book that I loved as a kid, now available on Amazon.

Then, in
early August, my ranking suddenly shot up 200,000 places.

My first
thought was that word was getting around about my recent release, The No-Campfire Girls; after all, it
only came out a few months before. (Yes,
for those of you paying attention, this was written before I discovered my newer
novel had been released without my knowledge.) Maybe campers were coming
back home and looking for a fun read. Maybe it was about to catch fire, no pun
intended. Maybe I could pay off my credit cards! Word of mouth is a great way
to sell books.

But no.

It turned
out to be, in fact, a small flurry of sales of my first book, Storm Chaser.
It came out in June—2011. Don’t get me wrong: the book got great reviews, and I
sold a lot of copies early on, but three years is a long time in the publishing
industry. When it comes to publicity, I’ve been concentrating on The No-Campfire Girls and my novel that
comes out in October (*ahem*). Why now?

I don’t
know.

You thought
I’d have an answer, didn’t you? Silly readers.

There is
one possibility: my October release, The
Notorious Ian Grant, is a sequel to Storm
Chaser. I tried to write it so that you didn’t have to read the first story
to appreciate the second, but I’m not going to tell anyone that. If you find
that out, you might not buy the first one. So maybe someone was interested
enough in the second to go back and read the first.

The problem
is, I haven’t cranked up the publicity machine (which works about as well as my
old lawn mower). I’ve been busy doing summer stuff, or trying to get people to
buy The No-Campfire Girls, or
checking my Amazon rankings. I don’t think I’ve even mentioned Ian Grant, who’s
somewhat notorious, in the last few months. Besides, if it’s all about the
sequel, why was there no uptick in sales for my related short story collection?

So in the
end, I don’t know. I went from a rank in the 350,000’s to breaking 100,000, and
I don’t know what—if anything—I did to make a difference. Most writers are good
at writing, but stink at selling.

We don’t know how to make those
Amazon numbers dance. We don’t know the best way to attract a publisher, an
agent, or a reader … even if we’ve
accomplished it, most don’t really know how. A good turn of phrase? An
attractive penname? Getting our query letter to them on a Wednesday before
lunch?

Occasionally
a writer will figure out what worked for them, tell other people, those other
people will try it, and it won’t work. Nobody knows. You might as well hire
that wizard with the beard, only he’s getting better money as the head of the
Amazon IT department.

I guess
I’ll just keep whacking away at it, and occasionally take my frustrations out
by writing … this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check Amazon.

Matt Smith
came to my house to help figure out why my clothes drier isn’t running—he even
used his sonic screwdriver on it. He discovered it is indeed getting supplied
with power ... but it still doesn’t work. It’s like the Federal government of
driers.

Maybe I
should have called Peter Capaldi?

Okay, not
the same Matt Smith. Seriously, it was nice of Matt to confirm the problem
wasn’t with the plug, and now I’m going to start my own Kickstarter type
program: When I sell $350 worth of books, I buy a new drier. It’ll work until
everyone figures out I have to buy a new drier, whether I make any sales or
not.

I promised myself that with every major writing milestone I'd have some fanfiction fun as a reward, so this is to celebrate the release of my novel, "The Notorious Ian Grant".

It's also, of course, a nice way to mark the first TV appearance of the 12th Doctor--even though what I'm giving you is the 10th, for reasons that will become obvious.

###

The fun part is looking, and while looking Luna
Lovegood discovers a strange blue box in Hogwarts - and an even stranger man
inside, with a simple request: "take me to your leader".

THE HEADMASTER'S DOCTOR

Luna Lovegood wandered through the
halls of Hogwarts, looking.

She didn’t know what she was looking
for, but she always found something. Looking was the fun part.

Sure enough, she found a new something
in a dead end corridor, empty except for tall windows and a stone Gargoyle: a
tall blue wooden box in the shadows, perhaps big enough for a few people to
stuff themselves into, with the words “Police public call Box” along the top.
She paused, her head tilting as she studied it.

“Hello.” It was clearly alive, so it
was only polite to greet it.

The box’s door swung open, and Barty
Crouch Junior stepped out.

“Oh.” Luna reached for her wand,
then paused when the man smiled. “You look like someone who’s … no longer
there.”

“Well, I can’t be that person then,
can I? I’m here!”

That made sense. Plus, this man
looked remarkably more sane, and seemed older, and Luna was fairly certain
Crouch Junior could not have pulled off such a dashing look in a pinstripe soup
and brown duster. “Are you a professor?”

“No, I’m a Doctor. I’m looking for a
professor, though: a man by the name of Dumbledore.” The Doctor closed the
box’s door and locked it behind him.

“Come along, then. My name is Luna.”
If this man was not a student or a teacher, the Headmaster was exactly who
should be alerted. But she paused when they reached the gargoyle. “I’m afraid I
don’t know the password.”

“Really?” The Doctor took a wand
from his pocket—a very unusual looking wand that made a strange whirring sound
when he waved it toward the gargoyle. Luna instantly wanted one of her own.
“Ah.”

The gargoyle leapt aside.

“Most wands don’t do that,” Luna
told him.

The Doctor glanced at his wand, then
tucked it into his jacket pocket. “It’s sonic.”

“Of course. That explains the
sound.” Luna knew what the word sonic meant, and assumed it must be a kind of
magic, or at least not the kind of technology the Muggles used.

Together they climbed the circular
staircase, and The Doctor didn’t seem the bit perturbed about it moving as they
went. They paused at the oaken double doors. Instead of using his wand The
Doctor gave three quick knocks, and the doors swung open.

Headmaster Dumbledore stood before
them, and exchanged a hearty handshake with The Doctor. “Welcome Doctor,
welcome! Come, sit. Miss Lovegood, by all means, do come in also.”

Was Dumbledore sick? He didn’t seem
sick … maybe The Doctor wasn’t that kind of doctor. Luna followed the two men
in and perched on an armchair, looking around curiously as they exchanged
pleasantries and sat on either side of the desk. The books that lined part of
the circular room called to her, but she silently told them she couldn’t read
right now.

“You look well, Albus.”

“As do you, Doctor, younger than ever.
I was paid a visit by your granddaughter earlier this year—she says hello.”

Granddaughter? Luna studied The Doctor.

Dumbledore pushed a glass bowl of candy
toward the other man. “Please, help yourself.”

“Hm …” The Doctor rubbed his chin.
“I’ve rather lost my appetite for those, after that dust flavored bean—I was
thirsty for days. But I brought something I believe you’ll find just as tasty,
and less of a risk.” He reached into a pocket, and produced a small bag. “Jelly
Baby?”

“Why, thank you.” The Headmaster
took a handful, then The Doctor offered the rest to Luna. “You can take the
bag, Luna. I recently found a whole cabinet full of these, so there’s plenty to
go around—and no surprises, like those Every Flavor Beans.”

Luna rather liked surprises,
although she’d found the liver flavored Bean less than savory.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his smile
fading into a grave expression. “I must apologize once again for that
unfortunate unpleasantness at the Ministry, Doctor. I realize it could have
been ages or minutes ago for you …”

“It wasn’t at all your fault—“

“Perhaps, but I was blind to what
was happening, and you’re the one who suffered for it. Barty Crouch Junior was
a youth when that spell diffused you into his body, so no one noticed as he
grew to resemble you—and sadly, I knew you only by another face. If I had not
managed to remove you at the moment of the dementor attack, you may have been
trapped even longer …”

“To me it was only a few hours.” The
Doctor’s voice was gentle. “Just the same, I’d rather not have it happen again.
Can I assume a Time-Turner is no longer in the hands of Barty Crouch?”

Luna’s attention had been wandering
to the arched ceiling, but now it snapped back onto the other occupants.
Time-Turner?

“Barty Crouch has, I’m afraid,
passed away.”

“Oh—I’m so sorry.” And The Doctor
did look sorry, although Luna surmised something Crouch did had caused the
strange man many problems.

“Perhaps it’s for the best.”
Dumbledore leaned back, looking suddenly much older. “The punishment for trying
to change his son’s past would have been very severe indeed, had Barty
survived. And of course he would have had to deal with the fact that his
disruption, in the end, made no difference at all—and even caused his son’s
mental imbalance.”

“Having two minds trapped in one
body will do that. But they can’t be faulted for trapping me—Crouch didn’t even
know I’d been drawn into the spell.” After a moment The Doctor waved his hand,
as if putting it all behind him. “And the Time-Turners? I tried to convince the
Master that humans were not yet capable of handling a device like that, but he
does like sewing chaos.”

“All destroyed in a conflict at the
Ministry of Magic. All but this one.” Dumbledore pulled a necklace from a desk
drawer, and handed it to The Doctor.

The visitor studied it as it dangled
from his hand. “I suppose he expected the human race would destroy themselves
with these. And they might have, too, if your people hadn’t tracked them all
down.”

“What will you do with it?”

The Doctor shrugged. “The Master
stole them from our home planet, but I can’t take it back there. I believe I’ll
just hold onto it, for a while.”

“Perhaps you’ll find someone else
trustworthy who can make use of it.” Dumbledore rose. “And now, Doctor, I fear
I must take my leave of you. These are perilous times, and I find myself pulled
in every direction.”

“Of course.”

“Miss Lovegood, will you show The
Doctor back to where you found him? And do try not to be late for your next
class.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” What an odd
comment—Luna didn’t have another class until after lunch. But she obediently
rose and led The Doctor through the door and down the stairs, where the
gargoyle again stepped aside for them.

“How long have you known Professor
Dumbledore?” Luna asked, as they headed back toward the box.

“Oh … a hundred years, give or take.
He journeyed with me once, for a short time, after a friend of his passed
away.”

“That sounds like fun. I suppose
everything is a journey, but some are more interesting than others. ” They
paused by the box, and Luna gazed up at it. “It’s bigger on the inside, isn’t
it?”

Turning, The Doctor examined her
more closely. Then he smiled. “You like to travel? As it happens, I travel a
lot.” He opened the door, and she gazed in with wide eyes and an open mouth. It
was, indeed, bigger on the inside.

“But I need to be back by my next
class,” she breathed.

“Oh—didn’t I mention it’s a time
machine?”

Luna grinned. “Of course it is.”

“Fantastic!” The Doctor led the way
in. But, just as Luna was about to follow, she heard a cough behind her.

She turned to see a tall man in a
flowing black robe. He gazed at her, mouth in that perpetual frown, face
partially hidden by long strands of dark hair. “Miss Lovegood.” He held his
hand out. The Time-Turner dangled from his fingers. “You will take this with
you.”

“Oh. Where did you get that,
Professor?”

“From you.”

The Doctor stuck his head back
through the door. “Hello, Severus!”

If anything, Snape’s frown deepened
even more. “Doctor. Miss Lovegood, you are going to be a few hours late.” The
Doctor looked offended, but chose not to speak.

“Thank you very much.”

“Now that you know you will be late
… I expect you will not … be … late.”
Snape spun on his heels and stalked toward Dumbledore’s office.

“Thank you very much, Professor!” Luna
walked into the box, and let the door shut behind her.